


Living in Dead Glory

by Filigranka



Category: 18th Century CE RPF
Genre: Dialogue Heavy, Gen, Politics, after Partitions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-11-14 09:50:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11205567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Filigranka/pseuds/Filigranka
Summary: ‘You never invite me. I’d be hurt, but I suppose I’m not so fitting for your current little circle of admirers. For one, I am not a beggar—‘‘For two, none of them is a traitor.’





	Living in Dead Glory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nabielka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nabielka/gifts).



‘Nice place.’ Franciszek’s smiled ended in a deep bow. ‘Wonderful alabasters—from Siberia, if I am not mistaken? I was thinking about using it in one of my   palaces as well. Their shade of rosé reminds one of the sky at dawn, brings a ray of hope to the souls of the gentle men...’ He finished all the necessary ritual bowing and straightened his back, smoothing down his żupan. ‘You must be so grateful for her death. Pavel at least gives you decent confinement conditions. It’s a striking example of the Romanian style. It could use a little renovation, of course. Restoration, I would even say. To its intended glory.’

Stanisław didn’t take a bait, although he winced at the mention of Catherine. He knew, of course, that the Tsarina had not built this palace with him in mind. Tsar Pavel probably meant well, though—he was too gentle to hurt somebody this much consciously, he just did not have a single subtle, tactful bone in his body.

Poniatowski managed to drink the chocolate, oozing vehemence and lethal, understated venom. But Franciszek was hardly a man easily influenced by sentiment and emotion. His conscience had survived the information about his people—Rzeczpospolita, they called her, Her Most Serene Republic—sentencing him to death and  _infamia_ , survived them hating him enough to hang a portrait of him at the gallows. It had survived the fall of the only system—the only country—he believed in, the loss of everything he had ever loved. It would survive Stanisław’s hurt glances, too. Gladly, even.

For his conscience might be indifferent to all, but his pride—his honour—oh, his pride most definitely was not.

‘You never send me invitations. I would be hurt, but I suppose I am not the best fit for your current little circle of admirers. For one, I am not a beggar—‘

‘For two, they're not traitora.’ Stanisław snapped suddenly. His fingers clenched tighter around the porcelain cup, fingertips whitening from pressure.

Franciszek almost blurted that neither was he—it would even be a truthful exclamation, for he had not done anything different than the so-called heroes and if he had been mistaken and his actions hurtful, so had been they and theirs—but stopped himself right at the last moment. That would seem too defensive, like he might try to, like he felt the need to plead innocence and beg for reassurance. Forgiveness. Something. He had nothing to answer for, and especially not to Staś. Damn it, he was born to the house of Branicki, a magnate of Rzeczpospolita, a free man. Nobody could judge him—except for the God Almighty and Her Most Serene Rzeczplita and by her he didn’t mean the lawless, violent, tyranny-supporting crowds—and to nobody he answered; his body might bow in the presence of the tsars, but his will never would.

Thus he just smiled with a diplomat’s ease and replied, almost cheerfully: ‘Except for you.’

Stanisław nodded with a heavy sigh. Not surprising. His will had always been weak and easily swayed. There just had been a time when to Franciszek it had seemed like an asset, not a liability.

Or so he preferred to think nowadays.

‘You know,’ Stanisław half-closed his eyes, seemingly tired, ‘when I was told you managed to escape the Kościuszko’s forces and people’s wrath, I was fool enough to be honestly relieved.’

‘That’s very touching.’

Poniatowski smile looked more like a suddenly opened wound, so much effort and pain showed on his face when he cracked it. ‘You are right in your mockery, dear friend. I am incapable of letting my attachments go. When I love, it is forever. Perhaps in better times, it would be a virtue.’

‘ _Amicus Plato, sed magis amica veritas_.’ Franciszek shrugged. ‘It was never about you. It was about Her Most Serene—’

‘—Rzeczpospolita is gone. It is all over, my dear Franciszek.’ Stanisław sounded gentle. ‘Our politics, our scheming, our great heritage, our rights and freedoms, our once great country.  _Pulvis es et in pulverem reverteris_... Yet our ancestors must be bitterly disappointed in us.’

‘Don’t  _you_  dare—You would not find  _my_  signature on any of those treacherous treaties.’ “Unlike yours” didn’t need to be spoken loud. Franciszek doubted Staś, for all his faults, was honourless enough to ever forget it.

‘Because nobody needed your signature.’ Stanisław laughed. ‘I am glad to see our magnateria as full of itself as it has ever been. It makes me feel a little better, to be honest.’ Upon Franciszek questioning “hm?”, he elaborated. ‘If even destroying your—ours—country and the dissolution of ours rights failed to change the minds of our lot, then I never stood a chance, no matter what I chose to do.’

‘You did enough. You destroyed our freedom, our—’

‘So did you. And yes, I know you love Rzczplita. We all loved her, and we all loved her too blindly.‘ Stanisław’s smile took a melancholic curve. ‘That was part of the problem. Each one of us wanted her for himself and himself only and we preferred to see her dead than in the hands of others.’ Stanisław laughed hollowly. ‘The only difference is that I am able to admit as much. You—absolutely not, even faced with the judgement of the people. For all your rhetoric, you loved wealth much more than you loved the common good.’

And that managed to strike. Painfully even. Franciszek was hearing it constantly nowadays and it was always unfair, but from Staś and his coterie—especially.

‘What you know about a republic’s love and republican virtues? You loved Catherine only. The only virtues you possessed were those of the western courtiers.’ Franciszek almost spat the last words. ‘Poetry, dances, art and women. I loved liberty,’ he hissing through clenched teeth, conveniently omitting all adventures of his youth; he had changed, he told himself, so they hardly mattered. ‘I loved the Commonwealth. I loved the law. Every pound of my flesh, every breath I take, every beat of my heart was for one entity only, for Her Most Serene Highness. You were the ones breaking the law, destroying the liberty, killing the Commonwealth. You were the ones who wanted to install a tyranny in place of a free republic.’

‘Our law had stopped working a century ago.’ Stanisław shook his head. ‘Our free republic was falling, and it fell because you were incapable of changing it according to the needs of current times. They might be corrupted, but we live in that present, not in the glorious past.’

‘You should not change what is perfect. Rzeczpospolita’s laws were perfect. It was us who were not worthy of them. If we were to restore our people to the ways of our ancestors, if we could again be worthy of their ideas—‘

‘For a man with such a grand love of tradition, you did not learn all that much from history. Sejms had talked about “restoring our virtues” for a century or longer. It did not help. The only thing which could save us was the modernisation of the law—‘ For a moment, Stanisław seemed restored in his strength and energy; but it passed almost as suddenly as it had appeared. ‘—but it is no matter now. For you and your coterie loved freedom, loved liberty and the laws, and the republic, and the election, and the civil rights oh-so-much that you—not me'—His gaze came to  _that_  ring, ring with  _her_ portrayal, and he hesitated for a second ‘—asked a despotic ruler to help you preserve it. How wise of you! And so we ended with no freedom, no civil rights, no parliament, no election, no freedom of speech even... Ah, and with no country.’ Stanisław chuckled. ‘You are the symbol treason now. Dante, if he were writing today, would put you in the Hell’s ninth circle, in Brutus’ stead. Men spit and women cross themselves upon hearing your name.’ There wasn’t even a hint of satisfaction in his voice, just bitterness and exhaustion. ‘And yet you still think you were right. That you are right. No wonder our Rzeczpospolita fell.’

‘If you “modernised” our laws there would be no Rzeczpospolita, too, for freedom would be dead. It would be a tyranny either way.’

‘You would still have freedom of speech and the right to vote, and  _nihil novi sine commune consensus_ even, just without the  _liberum veto_. But sure, it would be just the same tyranny. Face it: you love the theory of the political system more than the country.’

‘There is no difference. Commonwealth without the republican system is no longer commonwealth.’

‘So you are happy now, I gather? Triumphant?’ And then, before Franciszek started protesting, Staś leaned over the table, bringing their faces closer, and whispered softly, intimately almost: ‘Tell me, o friend once beloved, for this is an ability I would love to learn: how can you look your children into eyes without shame? How can you withstand the judgement you know they and their children, and children of all generations to come, will pass upon you?’

Branicki rose to his feet, his hand on his sabre already.

‘You dare talk about my children? At least I had the decency to sire them with my own legally wedded wife and gave them my own surname, and I shall leave them Europe’s biggest fortune, not millions of debt and—‘

‘Is Czartoryski’s fortune not the biggest one nowadays? Not that it matters much. Considering your current reputation, I imagine they will end up cursing this gift and wishing for the kind of plausible deniability which comes from being the fruit of a less legal union—‘ Franciszek’s sabre was already at Stanisław’s throat, but Poniatowski, quite unexpectedly, did not falter. ‘—or bearing any other name. Put that down. You and your wife, who I deeply respect, might be Catherine’s favourites, but Pavel fancies me and all these, as you were kind enough to call them, beggars. And you do not want to cross His Majesty.’

Branicki gave him a hard, cold glance, but slowly put the weapon away and then back into its sheath. Poniatowski observed it strangely calmly.

‘So you’re afraid of losing the tsar’s favour more than you fear losing you honour?’ He smiled sadly. ‘So much for you being a free man, full of republican virtues, defender of liberty... The Franciszek Ksawery Branicki I knew is dead. Now—now you are just another tyrant’s courtier.’

Branicki lost his breath. He could not see and thought, for a second, that he was about to pass out from outrage, as a honourable man should when faced with such an offence—such a lie—but he did not. He just staggered a few swaying, unsure steps towards the door. Almost an escape. Almost.

‘You—you lost your damn mind,’ he stuttered. ‘There is no honour for me—I mean—in duelling with an insane person. Men cannot be offended by the words of a madman.’ He calmed a little upon hearing his own reasoning; it seemed logical.

‘I wish you were right,  _Franciszek_.’ Stanisław’s laughter, despite his words, seemed definitely mad. ‘Good men, good citizens, good nobles fell into madness upon Her fall. Good men committed suicides. Hundreds of our nobility died at their own hands after last Partition, just like the Romans did in ancient times. Like our ancestors faced with such a shameful tragedy would. For to be mad, nowadays, is the highest honour for Rzeczpospolita’s sons, the ultimate proof of the love for the fatherland. I would pray for madness, but neither of us deserves it, and God has already heard enough blasphemous prayers.’

‘Suicide is an unforgivable sin,’ commented Franciszek flatly.

‘So is betraying your king and your country. Do not use God and the Church to defend your cowardice. We have no dreams, no hope and no honour—let us preserve our manners, at least.’

‘You are mistaken.’ That was the subject Branicki liked and felt confident in. Politics, scheming and plans for their most unfortunate country’s future. For a future it still had, that much Franciszek was sure of. Like this irritating brat, young Czartoryski, often said, republics are easily conquered, but never truly destroyed. ‘Every one of us is the Republic. I rise my children to be patriots. We just need to bide our time and act reasonably. His Majesty is on our side, he could be persuaded to restore some of our laws. Maybe give us some sort of a protectorate, even. His sons will grow open-minded and influenced by the French ideas quite a lot—and much as I despise this modern, half-despotic republic of theirs, it could still be useful for our cause. Russia admires us,’ he added passionately. ‘Our culture, our poets, our literature, our tradition and history... We could be for them what Greeks were to Rome—‘

Poniatowski burst into laughter. It was long, high-pitched and unruly. He started to cry in the middle. Branicki was caught completely unprepared by it and felt a shadow of tenderness—really, Staś had not changed a one bit!—which surprised him even more.

‘You,’ Poniatowski managed to choke out finally, ‘you are completely delusional. Blinded by hubris and the illusions of grandeur. Go, then, go and play a Greek teacher to a Roman emperor. Just remember those teachers were usually slaves, not senators.’

Franciszek pursed his lips, tightly.

‘There is no need to offend me. I came here in good will. Wanted to offer you a hand—money, in fact. I cannot bear seeing last king of the Commonwealth in such dire straits.’

‘One would hope you said “my former friend”, at least.’

‘I would rather like to call you my friend still. Especially since our past arguments are void, as you yourself observed,’ Branicki softened his voice. ‘But you sided with my enemies and when I came to you with an offer of help you offended me and my family. Even the gentlest soul would find it hard to maintain a friendship in such circumstances.’

‘No mention of you confederating and asking a foreign country for a military intervention against me in these “circumstances” of yours?’

‘Like I said, all that is void now. My money, on the other hand, is absolutely not. I can help you.’

‘And I can refuse.’

Franciszek could not help gasping a little. Staś refusing money? Now that was the surprise of the decade.

‘What? You took money from Catherine, you are taking money from His Majesty, but you wouldn’t take it from me? That’s nonsense!’

‘Oh, even I can learn something from time to time.’ Stanisław smiled sheepishly, in that usual manner of his. ‘And so I learnt to not trust you. You would just use me in some plot of yours. Some desperate attempt of restoring your reputation in the patriotic circles, perhaps?’

‘Like I care what some lawless, poor, treacherous crowd thinks about me!’ Franciszek shuddered with anger. ‘I, son of the Branickis! They are worth neither my attention nor my sabre! They—’

Poniatowski cut him off with a tired gesture of his hand.

‘I feel so very, very old, you know? You look much better than I do, despite your age. And so, it does not matter anymore, not for me. I do not care about your schemes and your money. There is no use for you in visiting and offering me money and the return of our past camaraderie. Much as I would like to take it, I know better now. And so I am sure you will storm out and never appear here again.’ He smiled sadly. ‘But rest assured: you will still have a place in my mind and in my prayers. We shall see each other at the Judgement Day, I think—for you were once one of those friends who held my heart and my soul—and let us hope God will give us what History, I’m afraid, will forever refuse.’

**Author's Note:**

> Title is loosely based on Kaczmarski's "Samosierra".
> 
> Thanks for K. and A. for taking a look at this!


End file.
